


Unhealthy Attachment

by amireal



Category: SGA - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, First Time, Harlequin Romance Challenge, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-09-19
Updated: 2005-09-19
Packaged: 2017-10-03 22:59:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amireal/pseuds/amireal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"So your bedside manner leaves a lot to be desired." </p>
            </blockquote>





	Unhealthy Attachment

**Author's Note:**

> **Notes:** Wow, ok I blame everyone who encouraged me. Most especially [  
> ](http://forcryinoutloud.livejournal.com/profile?style=mine)[**forcryinoutloud**](http://forcryinoutloud.livejournal.com/?style=mine). You suck.
> 
> Thanks to my beta reader [  
> ](http://chopchica.livejournal.com/profile?style=mine)[**chopchica**](http://chopchica.livejournal.com/?style=mine) because my grammer sucks man.
> 
> It should also be noted that I had to fight my brain on this, because it was all "But but, REALISM!" and I was all "But but, Harlequin!!"

Whoever it was that was changing his sheets, was grumbling loudly about menial labor, and his genius being wasted.

John looked at the ceiling in confusion. "So your bedside manner leaves a lot to be desired," he mumbled around the cotton in his mouth.

The sheets were yanked especially hard. "Yes well, me changing your linens is the equivalent of you attempting to find a unifying theory."

Well that made the kind of sense that... didn't. His eyes closed heavily before he could ask. Sleep seemed like the safer option anyway.

******

John woke up again, later. Or at least he assumed it was later since the shadows were all slanted differently.

"Awake again, huh? Give me a minute to finish this-- ah there we go." A face peered over him, looking grumpy and unshaven. "Are you uncomfortable? Not that I care."

John blinked a lot.

The face frowned. "Do you have some sort of brain damage? Because that's not on your chart and it's really not fair if they don't warn me about something like that."

Maybe he needed more drugs.

******

"So you're obviously not a nurse." John had the feeling the answer would probably give him a headache, but the grumpy man was a like a scab begging to be poked. Momentary relief, followed by hours of pain.

He looked affronted. "What, did the robe and the bandages give it away? No. Definitely not. I'm a physicist." Pausing and looking slightly proud, he stuck out his hand. "Dr. Rodney McKay."

John took it and shook gingerly. "Who changes sheets in his spare time?"

Rodney dropped his hand like a hot potato and wrote something on the pad of paper in his lap. "I checked with the doctors. You aren't brain damaged, and yet you insist on asking stupid questions."

Oh hey look, pain. "So why *are* you keeping me company?"

"I need food and shelter, and this was the only way to get it. The Colonel that runs this place needs a lesson in manners." Rodney frowned and scribbled at the paper frantically. "What I wouldn't give for a calculator; fractals I can do, but long division is just annoying."

******

There was a setback. There was *always* a setback. Something about bleeding and missed fragments and whole hell of a lot of pain. After the first cramp, John didn't remember very much.

There were a lot of foggy moments; hazy with pain killers, the world was soft and bouncy and full of cotton.

"...and so I told your doctor that urine that color couldn't be healthy. He's not speaking to me anymore... he's also not your doctor anymore."

John twitched.

"Are you waking up? Because I've hit a block in my research, and your lower than average I.Q. combined with the way you blindly stab into the dark for ideas is oddly helpful."

John managed to lift an eyelid. Rodney was looking quite bedraggled.

"Sleep?"

"Yes, you've been asleep for three days." Rodney leaned over the machine next to his bed, fiddling with something.

"Not me. You." Wow, his throat felt like crap. He swallowed. Oh. He recognized that feeling. Intubation.

His eyelids were pried open and a bright light flashed.

Rodney slumped back into his seat. "Oh good, no more brain damage than before."

******

After that, there was another fairly blank period, punctuated by grumbling, yelling and soft words.

******

"...when I finally get my hands on a phone that man is going to be mincemeat... and possibly cannon fodder..."

John's lips felt cracked and broken. He tried to lick some moisture into them, but his mouth was similarly dry.

"Oh good, you're awake. Coma patients are so boring."

Who the hell-- oh right, Physicist with a sheet changing fetish. "Water?" he croaked.

"Yes, that would be refreshing-- oh, you. Yeah, hold on."

******

"Major."

Rodney's whisper ate through the fog. "Whaa?" His mouth was all cottony again, and would probably be for the near future if they kept him as drugged as they had been.

"Open your eyes, Major."

His eyelashes felt glued shut, but he struggled anyway. "What's wrong, Rodney?" he asked, because Rodney was looking at him with a worried gaze.

"I've been listening to the news, collating reports. It's part of what I do when I'm not here. Part of a job that I'm entirely too qualified to be doing, but that's neither here nor there." Rodney's hands were moving quickly over the machines, turning them off. "It's not safe here."

That made him fight through the fog. "How?"

Warm, calloused fingers reached inside his gown, pulling the diodes away carefully, giving the stinging skin a quick rub that did more to alleviate the pain than John thought was appropriate. "I created the coding algorithm. I've been doing a lot of the translating myself."

Rodney's arms went down his sides, curling around him. "Put your arms around my neck."

"What are you doing?" He shivered at the heat hovering near him.

Rolling his eyes, Rodney pulled John's arms around him. "Seriously, they should have started cutting out the narcotics sooner. You're higher than a kite."

John locked his hands together and allowed himself to be brought to a sitting position. "Not high, just confused."

An annoyed grunt huffed at him. "I broke the enemy's code last night." Rodney did something around John's legs. "Not that those idiots are listening to me."

Hands skirted around his shins and John yelped. "What are you doing?"

Tired eyes glared at him. "Putting on the sweatpants I stole from your previous doctor." Rodney started pulling the fabric up and then stopped abruptly. "Unless you'd rather wander around high with your ass hanging out?"

John waved at him to continue. "Well, it was a thought, but since you stole for me, it'd be an insult to refuse." The pants slid up to his knees. Without asking, John slumped forward, letting his weight settle on Rodney's shoulders so the pants could be slid under him. Thumbs brushed under the muscles of his thighs, which were quaking slightly with drugs and exhaustion. "Though next time," he said into Rodney's neck. "You could just bring me flowers."

******

"Where are we going?"

Rodney flicked his eyes in John's direction. "North. Ish."

John nodded. "Vague. Comforting." His arms tightened around his bandages briefly. The pain was being less of an annoying itch, and more something he was going to have to deal with soon. He shivered violently. The contractions caused another round of aching.

"You can't be cold." Rodney wiped his brow. "It's like 35 degrees."

John blinked stupidly, shivering again.

"Centigrade, you moron." Rodney, taking one hand off the wheel, reached behind himself and produced a gray, generic in that industrial sort of way blanket, and threw it at John's head, the whole time muttering about stupid Americans and their we know best mentality.

The blanket didn't help much.

The third time he inched up the heat, Rodney's hand slapped his fingers, and John's instant retraction caused another bubble of pain, this one stronger than the others, making him hiss.

Their vehicle stopped abruptly, and a large palm smacked into his forehead.

"Ow," John muttered.

"No fever," Rodney muttered to himself, obviously ignoring him. He twisted his arm, making an angry face and reached behind his seat to grab a small black bag. "I can't believe those morons."

"What?" John watched with glazed eyes as Rodney's sure fingers sorted through medical equipment.

"They got you addicted, and the road is not the place I want to start your twenty-eight day program." Rodney produced a needle, a vial and a small alcohol swab. "Not to mention you're probably not healed enough for the sort of vomiting and convulsing that would involve."

Rodney shifted around, removing his belt and then wrapping it around John's upper arm. John could practically feel his muscles relaxing in anticipation of the shot. "What are you giving me?"

The needle cap was clamped between his teeth as Rodney cleaned a small patch of skin in the hollow of John's elbow . "Stage three narcotic. Do you need to know more?" he slurred around the obstacle in his mouth, while sticking the needle in.

John was actually surprised at the skill Rodney displayed, but he was too intent on feeling the drug filter through his system to say anything.

The ghosting of a hand across his brow and then back through his hair made him open his eyes, but he saw nothing more than Rodney closing the bag and dumping it back behind the seat.

John checked out for a bit, and came back to someone grabbing his hand.

"Still alive?" Rodney's fingers circled his wrist. "Because the drugs I have in the back would pretty much make me rich for a while there, and I'd much rather not waste them on you if that's not the case."

John twitched his hand, moving so his fingers could grip the ones taking his pulse. He squeezed lightly. "M'good."

Rodney harrumphed. "Three more seconds and I'd have had a reading. Now I have to start over." But he squeezed back before moving off to find John's pulse again.

******

"Squalor!" Rodney dropped his bags on the floor. "You have reduced me to squalor!"

John, who had been basking in a pleasant place where he wasn't moving, wasn't in pain and was far more horizontal than he'd been for the last twelve or so hours, started at the sudden noise. That last round of painkillers was still flying high in his veins though, so he was pretty mellow about it.

He eyed the faded curtains, the king size bed with *clean* sheets and the ugly, but functional carpet. "I may just be a pilot, and possibly a little bit high, so my understanding of large vocabulary words might be a bit understated compared to your large brains --" Rodney's chest puffed out a bit, "-- and overstated ego, but this is not squalor."

Rodney's chest deflated and his eyes narrowed. "Is too." His lower lip jutted out just a bit, which John attributed to a narcotic induced hallucination. Because, seriously, grown man. Maybe.

"Is there hot water?" John asked from under a flop of hair. Not waiting for an answer, he clawed in inefectually at the blankets. They didn't move. He suspected they were glued down.

"Yes." Rodney grumped and pushed his hands out of the way.

With the blankets moved, Rodney lifted his legs into place, helping arrange his body into something resembling comfortable.

"Then not squalor," John mumbled, and then patted the empty space beside him. "Come on, you've been driving forever, and you're grumpy enough as it is."

Gingerly, Rodney set beside him. There was some intrusive pulse taking and forehead feeling before he crawled up and beat at the free pillow on the other side of the bed until it submitted to his will.

"I'll run out for food in a few hours," Rodney said quietly, breathing already evening out."

"Mmm, steak," John agreed.

Rodney snorted quietly, the air puffing up John's hair. "I get steak; you get a delicious protein infused IV."

"At least I don't have to taste it." The drugs and the travel and the movement he was pretty sure he wasn't supposed to be engaging in caught up to him in a sprint, and darkness encroached upon his mind.

The last thing he felt was warm calloused fingers curling around his wrist.

******

Two days and two rather odd phone calls to a man with a thick Scottish accent later, Rodney resolutely started the reduction in pain meds.

John had wholeheartedly agreed. Of course, he'd been high at the time.

Now. sitting in bed, shivering heavily, his skin clammy just about everywhere -- and didn't that just chafe? -- he decided he'd not only been high, but stupid.

"Time yet?" he asked, his voice shaking.

"Not even close," Rodney said softly,which was really confusing, because Rodney never said anything softly. He even whispered loudly.

"'k." John nodded, going back to not paying attention to the TV. He shivered some more.

The hand on his forehead had ceased surprising him sometime the day before, though it still puzzled him, because he was pretty sure he'd seen one of those fancy digital thermometers amongst the things Rodney had stolen-- acquired from the hospital.

"No fever," Rodney murmured. "We're out of blankets. Think you can hold down some warm water?"

His throat was dry and scratchy and begging for water, but his stomach laughed at him and knotted up as punishment for even thinking about it. He shook his head sadly.

Rodney's lips pressed together, holding back a frustrated sound. "Another twenty four hours, Major. I promise. It'll get better."

John shivered especially violently, but nodded. He knew. Being in the military, it was the sort of thing you got educated about at some point or another. "Sadly, time is relative," he whispered hoarsely.

Wide, surprised eyes regarded him, but Rodney's lips twisted into a small smile. His hand glanced past John's forehead again, making a quick run through his hair. "So, this is where I make you promise not to hit me." Rodney's head tilted. "That is, when you regain the strength to lift your arm again."

John wasn't an idiot; he managed to follow a few snippets of the news that played on the television in the background. He understood enough to know that Rodney had quite probably saved his life, or least a few of his limbs. "Rodney, if the force of your personality alone hasn't already had me plotting a number of ways of killing you, short of stealing my wallet and insulting my mother, we should be good."

Rodney looked at him askance, a glimmer in his eye. "It's an awfully nice wallet."

"Well then, off with your head."

Standing up and stretching a little, Rodney shook his head condescendingly. "I hid the drugs."

John closed his eyes. "Take the wallet. It means nothing to me."

The bed shifted, and John peeked out to see Rodney climbing in next to him.

Rodney stopped when he caught sight of John's questioning eyes. "I'll stick to one blanket, thank you, I overheat easily, but I figured body heat was the best way to keep you warm without asking for more blankets. The guy behind the desk is starting to look at me funny."

John noted that Rodney didn't move until he'd given a slow nod of assent.

Oddly graceful in his shimmying, Rodney managed to get himself comfortable, ending up with a pillow jammed behind his back. He reached for John, who froze at his touch, which was ridiculous because the man had been helping him to the bathroom for the last few days for chrissake.

Rodney stopped, hand lightly touching his shoulder, eyes tense.

John inched closer.

Rodney unfroze and gently manhandled him so that he was draped comfortably over Rodney's side. The warmth radiating from another body soothed his shivering muscles.

"Thanks," he muttered into Rodney's chest.

"You can pay for the chiropractor later."

John poked him in the stomach, and promptly fell asleep.

******

John woke with a gasp, stomach cramping around nothing, muscles shuddery and aching sharply, skin slick with sweat.

His pillow moved abruptly, and suddenly he was being wrapped in two secure arms.

"Fell asleep! Sorry! Sorrysorrysorry!"

They lowered him carefully to the bed, sweeping down across his torso before leaving completely.

Soon something tight was wound around his arm, and the sharp and familiar prick of a needle added itself to the already complex web of sensations running through his body. There was a second and possibly a third needle, but he was too gone to ask why. There was very little relaxing this time however, and he felt Rodney's presence disappear. He curled up into the blankets, alone and sweating.

Then there was a warm cloth on his forehead, wiping away the sweat and grime and oh my god it felt good. It swept down his neck in long, broad strokes, taking some of the shakes and pain with it.

It was like pure pleasure as it ran down his chest. The sharp knots on his ribs melted beneath the rough texture, and he sighed and whimpered with each stroke.

"...sorry. I should have set the alarm, should have known I was going to crash like that..."

Rodney's babble washed over him like a second warm cloth, bathing him in soft, concerned sounds.

His limbs were manipulated and gently prodded. John felt his sweat-soaked pants being peeled away, and the warm, wet cloth of good good feeling reached everywhere, taking with it every speck of dirt John's over sensitized skin could feel.

The cloth disappeared briefly, only to return feeling fresh, and the stroking continued, this time slower and with less logical progression.

The movements became whisper soft and John arched up into the last one, searching for more feeling.

It stilled and behind the noise in his head, he heard a gasp. John's hand searched without much coordination, and found a strong forearm, tense above his body. He pressed down firmly. "Please," he said in a rough voice. "Feels good."

"You'll catch your death," Rodney whispered.

Again with the quiet talking. John's head was clearing just a bit and Rodney's hand burned into his stomach, hot and tender all at once. John just wanted to feel good, to stop the constant sharp burn and the little invasive shivers and a thousand other uncomfortable things that had become a part of his life since the first time he'd woken up in that hospital.

Rodney's hand went flat beneath his, spidering across his abdomen, leeching away the cold and leaving behind fire. John settled his hand on top and pushed down, desperate for more feeling, more pressure. Rodney's thumb moved softly, making small circles in his skin.

"Major, this is... really stupid." Rodney's voice sounded breathless, and perilously close to breaking.

"I know." He made an effort to turn his head, to look Rodney in the eye.

He really shouldn't have.

Instead he closed his eyes and shifted his hand, lacing his fingers through Rodney's. Then slowly he moved their hands.

The room was filled with loud breathing mixed with gentle hitches of breath, and the hand under his moved without protest, but John couldn't bring himself to complete the move. Instead he rested them on his thigh, squeezing tightly.

"Sorry," he mumbled, opening his eyes again. "I shouldn't ask." He shouldn't *think* it actually, because really. Hand job in the dark after escaping certain death by the skin of his teeth, delirious with adrenaline that was one thing.

This, he admitted as he looked into the wide, glittering eyes staring back at him, was something completely different.

The hand under his moved – a short, stuttering sweep that left their entwined fingers wrapped around his half hard cock -- easing an ache he hadn't been aware of until that very moment. Before it had been about something other than pain, now it was distinctly about pleasure.

Rodney's fingers held strange calluses, and his palm was soft and perfect. Slow, even pulls slowly focused John's entire being onto their hands and his cock. Broken breathing accompanied their movements, and John's fingers tightened, urging Rodney just a little bit faster.

They moved together like they'd been doing it forever, sweeping great waves of quiet pleasure from him, cresting him higher and higher until he shuddered and came with a hushed gasp.

Their hands moved until every last spasm was wrung out of him, and then there was silence and stillness and loud breathing.

And sleep.

******

John woke in slow stages.

First the crisp, fresh air floating in the room tickled his nose. After that was the feeling of clean dry clothes and sheets. And then the remarkable lack of pain. He still ached and felt as week as a kitten, and there was residual shakes from withdrawal, but all in all, his body was quite happy.

Comparatively speaking.

He stretched carefully and opened his eyes.

Rodney was across the room huddled up in a large arm chair sitting with his feet propped up on the ottoman, legs bent slightly and arms wrapped around his chest. He was staring out the window, shaking his head. "....to hell in a hand job basket. Really, what was I thinking?" It sounded like an old conversation.

John closed his eyes. Oh wow, that really had happened. Purposefully he sighed loudly, and stretched again, rolling onto his side.

Rodney's head turned to face him, his eyes studying him critically. "Feeling better?"

John nodded. "How long has it been?"

"Eighteen hours," Rodney said shortly. "About ready for food?"

After taking an internal poll, the results were mixed. "Possibly. Maybe in a little bit."

Rodney nodded and resumed looking out the window.

The silence was kind of tense, and John had really had enough of that. "So, I gotta ask, not that I'm not grateful or anything, but why did we play Bonnie and Clyde back there?"

"Returning the favor, Major. Just returning the favor." Rodney didn't stop looking out the window.

John blinked hard. "Wait a minute. You're a Physicist?"

Rodney nodded slowly.

The world was spinning and John was stuck in a bad romance novel. "You were in the compound."

"And you liberated me."

The rest of the picture came into focus. The fading lines on Rodney's arms that John could just make out in the soft evening light, the fading, fuzzy memory of small white patches of gauze littering Rodney's neck back in the hospital, and Rodney's own exhaustion, which went well beyond the scope and stresses of their current predicament, leaving deep circles under his eyes.

John swallowed harshly. "So sitting by my bedside and kidnapping me in the middle of the night before an enemy attack is what? Thanks?"

"Well a muffin basket seemed so trite." Rodney's voice held a hard edge to it and abruptly his legs straightened, pushing the ottoman away with a violent shove. "Now that you're awake and obviously not in imminent danger of choking on your own vomit or something equally appealing, I'm taking a shower."

Rodney lifted himself out of the chair with only a small wince which John felt from across the room. Had he been staying that chair ever since he'd-- since they'd-- since he'd fallen asleep?

"Try not to die while I'm in the other room," Rodney called, just before the door shut.

Well, that probably could have gone better.

******

He dozed again, only to be woken by the slamming of a door.

"Food," Rodney said abruptly.

John sniffed the air. "Shwarma?"

"For me." Rodney reached inside the brown bags and pulled out a steaming foil packet. "You get broiled chicken."

Rodney also apparently got the really good smelling Turkish coffee, while John was stuck with the lukewarm bottled water.

He barely managed more than a few bites of the chicken before his body screamed nice try, but slow down, buddy.slow He stuck with water for a while, watching Rodney inhale his food while mooning over the coffee like a lost lover.

"Am I AWOL or just MIA?" John asked when the silence and teeth gnashing had become too much.

"Neither," Rodney answered through a mouthful food. "Once I got to a place where all outgoing phone calls weren't limited to whomever that tyrant of a Colonel deemed worthy, I was able to make a few calls." He finally swallowed, and licked his lips obscenely. "You're fine, and officially on paid leave."

John swallowed and carefully picked up a shred of chicken, sucking it into his mouth. "Oh. Good to know."

Rodney nodded and went back to his food.

John ate a few more bites of his chicken before looking up suddenly. "Oh hey, thank you."

He watched in horror as Rodney's face went bright red, and he choked on his shwarma. John immediately patted him firmly on the back, shaking his head the whole time. "For the life saving thing!"

Fast hands pushed him away, and Rodney glared at him from behind small coughs. "I'm fine."

Nodding sharply, John smiled tensely. "Good. It's bad form to kill the man who saved your life, after all."

The last of the coffee disappeared in a long swallow, the muscles of Rodney's neck working hard, emphasizing some angry looking scars. Impulsively, John reached up to touch them, letting his fingers lay softly over the rough skin.

Rodney froze, swallowing again. John let his thumb linger over his adams apple, feeling the strong movement of muscle under tender skin. He traced the lines, aware that Rodney had stopped breathing. Then he pulled back abruptly, embarrassed.

"So, how'm I doing doc?" he asked, by way of changing the subject.

Rodney blinked the glaze out of his eyes and stared back down at his food. "I'd say you're over the worst of the withdrawal." He looked up, without moving his head, giving his eyes a slitted, tired look. "Now all you need to worry about is the little matter of your actual injuries."

Unconsciously, John's hand went to his side, feeling the edges of large gauze pads and peeling tape. The faint pressure released a dull throb that didn't stop when he pulled away.

"That was remarkably slow witted of you," Rodney said, rolling up his garbage. "Next would you like to attempt some calisthenics?"

The abrupt change of mood left a little ache of whiplash in John's neck. "No, Rodney, I thought I'd start slow." He carefully wrapped the remainder of his food, hoping to eat more after a quick nap. "Just a few cartwheels around the room."

Rodney grabbed the food and shoved it into a mini fridge that John hadn't noticed before. "Oh, well then, let me just move some furniture."

Leaving the comment to drift in the air, John climbed back into bed and let himself get absorbed in the television until he fell into a fitful sleep.

******

He woke to an unsubtle poking of his good ribs.

"What could you possibly want that warrants this sort of abuse?"

Rodney poked him again and ripped the covers away. "Wound check."

John cracked an eyelid. Rodney was frowning and had a phone jammed between his ear and shoulder. Hands stretched to pull up his t-shirt and skimmed past sensitive skin. Instinctively John flinched away.

"Stay still," Rodney groused. "Sorry, Carson, the patient is a lot less compliant when conscious." He grabbed at the t-shirt again, this time successfully revealing the bandage. "I'd drug him, but I'd rather hoard what we have left. Would a blow to the head be detrimental to the healing process?"

He actually paused to listen to an answer on the other end of the line. John considered taking shelter under the nearby end table.

The distinctive snap of rubber gloves didn't do anything to alleviate the lingering feeling of discomfort. If the next words out of Rodney's mouth were 'bend over and cough' he was so gone.

Instead, careful fingers peeled away the dirty looking gauze to reveal a swollen scar glistening with a combination of salves and its own ickiness.

"Much better, Carson. Swelling is down, and it doesn't look dry and cracked anymore," Rodney said into the phone, poking at the wound carefully.

Better? Jeez, John was glad he'd slept and shivered and convulsed through the worst of it.

Rodney was nodding into the phone and listening attentively, all the while reaching for a bowl of water and a clean cloth.

About a half-second before the cloth touched him, John got a flash of remembered sensation, a warm wet cloth wiping away sweat and pain, and wringing out pleasing sensations. His entire body flushed, prickled, and quivered like a little girl. Rodney at least had the grace to hesitate and duck his head -- as much as he could with the cell phone jammed where it was -- before he took the first careful swipe.

It was clinical and precise, down to the amount of stuff squeezed from tubes, to the last piece of perfectly measured tape that Rodney pressed slowly onto his skin.

So there was absolutely no reason to be half hard.

Or to have to hold back a whimper when Rodney gave one last, and in John's opinion, completely unnecessary rub, before stripping away the gloves with a sound of disgust and standing to finish his conversation over by the window.

John pulled his shirt down slowly, possibly stretching it a little further than necessary in an effort to cover himself. He was staring at the ceiling, counting invisible cracks for long moments, when a phone was suddenly thrust into his hands.

"Carson wants to ask you some questions." Rodney was already moving away, packing up supplies.

Gingerly, John put the phone to his ear. "Hello?"

"Ah, there you are, lad. I've heard so much about you. I'm glad I finally get a chance to speak to you."

The Scottish accent threw him. "So, not to be unfriendly, but who are you?"

There was a startled pause before this Carson answered. "Dr. Carson Beckett, MD. You're telling me that Rodney didn-- of course he didn't. Never mind. How are you feeling?"

John took a mental accounting. "Sore, achy, weak, but better than I've felt in what feels like a while."

"Good, good." The shuffling of papers could be heard over the line. "When Rodney changed the bandages, did anything out of the ordinary happen?"

"Out of the ordinary?" John's voice pitched a little high.

"Sharp or burning pain mostly. Don't worry if it's a bit touchy. That's to be expected after the irritation of taking proper care."

Across the room, Rodney grumbled and moved some things around in the closet, reaching up to the top shelf, leaving a small sliver of skin peaking out as well as a few skin toned, large coverage bandages.

"Lad?"

John shook himself. "No, nothing like that."

"That's good. Rodney's been awfully worried about you." Dr. Beckett sounded distracted, shuffling more papers.

John sat up straight, and then hissed in pain. "Sorry, moved wrong." he said quickly, to quell any intrusive questioning. "He has?"

"Yes, asked me more about your injuries than his own, which was a novelty that I'll admit, had me intrigued."

"Oh?" John stared at Rodney, taking in the possibly stilted moments and little faces that might have been more than just his irritation at some little thing. "Don't suppose you can elaborate?"

"Second degree burns mostly, one small patch of third degree, and according to him, a nearly life threatening bullet wound, although according to the records faxed by the hospital, it was a through and through in the most innocuous place possible."

"Oh," John said again, stupidly. "But it's not serious."

"Well now." Dr. Beckett's voice got somber. "Not as serious as he'll claim, no, but if he doesn't slow down a bit, he'll be inviting some nasty repercussions."

John shifted the phone to his other ear, watching Rodney lumber to the bathroom. "Well, I don't know how long it's been since we got here, not exactly anyway. But he hasn't been doing much more than watching me sleep, giving me drugs and changing my bandages."

"That's good. Now, I don't want you to overexert yourself as well, you'll see be a bit more tired than you're used to. But don't let that stubborn bull wear himself out."

John laughed. "That's one way to describe him. Anything I should be on the look out for?"

"Tell Rodney the moment you feel any sign of infection, I'm sure you're familiar with those; fever, chills, cramps, pus, the like. And make him sit around for at least another day before he attempts to drive you two back to the base."

It occurred to John that he had no idea where they were, which niggled at him considering it was the sort of thing he usually was pretty careful about keeping track of. "Which base?"

"He's probably aiming to make it back to the air strip in Gaza, and then on to Germany, where I'm currently twiddling my thumbs."

One of the largest military hospitals overseas resided in Germany, which John supposed made sense. "Does Rodney realize that just getting ourselves onto a military transport isn't as easy as snapping his fingers?"

Dr. Beckett made a small choking noise. "You mean he hasn't prattled on about how important he is to the U.S. Government, and that he makes decisions that affect millions of lives before he finishes his third cup of coffee?"

"Er. No."

"Well then, consider yourself lucky, and don't worry about transportation. He'll get where he thinks he needs to go. He has this trick where he calls up the Air Force Chief of Staff. It gets them running every time."

"Ch-chief of staff?" John choked, because that wasn't the sort of thing you joked about with an Air Force pilot.

Dr. Beckett chuckled into his ear. "That's right, you help save—well --" He stopped abruptly, obviously thinking around something he wasn't supposed to say, probably something classified. "Well, you do the man a few favors, and he's pretty soft on you after that."

John resigned himself to doing a lot of surprised blinking. "Rodney did the Chief of Staff a favor?"

"Several."

He decided he didn't really want to know.

By the time Rodney reappeared, the phone was hung up, and John was pretty sure there were a lot of things he should have been told, but hadn't been. And he wasn't really sure if he actually wanted to know.

******

After that it was like he blinked and he was in Germany.

Well, to be fair, there was also a lot of sleeping, awkward silences, one long car ride, followed by an even longer plane ride, and absolutely no more hand jobs. And John was really pretty good with that, because that road led to temptation and blowjobs and dishonorable discharges. And at least one of those things was unpleasant.

He did finally get to meet the esteemed Dr. Carson Beckett, whom he was surprised to find out, was a civilian doing a quick tour, a vacation from his actual work apparently.

Rodney was whisked away with surprising speed and John found himself shoved into a bed and examined thoroughly by Dr. Beckett, who kept mumbling something about the danger of wrapping a cut over John's clothes and not believing Rodney hadn't managed to kill him.

Well, that was comforting.

******

He did get to see Rodney one last time before he left for parts unknown. Rodney left in a whirlwind of talking and blustering and not looking into his eyes.

"Well, its been different, I'll grant you that," Rodney said to the third button on John's shirt. "Thanks for the harrowing adventure. Both of them."

That was where John was supposed to say something sarcastic and wave goodbye. It stuck in his throat.

Rodney's wide eyes finally looked at him through the silence. His mouth opened wetly then closed with a sharp snap. Instead, a hand made its way up to his shoulder and squeezed hard, burning through John's newly requisitioned shirt. There was a brief stroke of thumb on his neck, and a mountain of unsaid things piling between them.

"Try not to get stuck in any more compounds." John's voice was suspiciously wobbily.

The sharp bark of laughter Rodney let loose didn't reassure him, but his hand squeezed again before letting go.

Not thinking, John's fingers reached and caught the hand briefly before it was too late. He squeezed back; just a flash of flesh on flesh, heat meeting heat, calluses sticking briefly and then it was gone.

******

Much later, he found out that his last mission earned him a promotion to Lt. Colonel and a desk job. Somewhere between ignoring the last few orders to go back – which had possibly saved Rodney's life, although he'd yet to get a coherent time line out of that event -- and his little sojourn with Rodney across the desert, landing him safely in Germany while god knows how many other people got lost in the field hospital, he'd pissed a few people off.

So, he wasn't thrown out, but he wasn't going anywhere either. Officially, he was desk bound with a medical note in his file, but he could read the writing, he'd read it before after all. They were just being nicer about it this time around, possibly due to his traveling companion.

Paperwork was the bane of his existence. Then one day a letter reached his inbox, covered in scrawled handwriting and barely legible.

Major,

The Air Force is run by a bunch of monkeys. Work for me and you can fly the coolest machines you've never imagined.

All you have to do is register at a school and work towards your doctorate. And I know you're capable of it. I hacked read your file .

If that's not what you're looking for, I can make a phone call or two, and make sure that your promotion gets put to good use, so you can go back to doing stupid things like risking your life for complete strangers. Most of whom won't be nearly as gracious about it as I was.

Enclosed is one open-ended ticket to Colorado Springs. Use it, cash it in, scalp it for those veal parmigna MREs, I don't care.

Rodney.

p.s. Call before you come, so I can change the sheets.

John stared at the letter until someone threw a stack of files in front of him. Then he carefully folded the letter back up, looked at the airline on the tickets and thought really hard.

********

As it turned out, the Air Force was very accommodating when you where going to visit one Dr. Rodney McKay. Even if you took your option to retire. The last of the combat duty he'd pulled had put him over the twenty year mark, which was like getting a pretty bow tie on top of everything else.

The ticket was cashed in of course, which Rodney had probably known was going to happen , because seriously, flying from Europe to Colorado Springs, civilian style? Not really appealing. This way they let him sign on as pilot on both legs of the journey and he wasn't incredibly bored.

The cash went towards tuition at a local University. John picked the one where a one Dr. Rodney McKay was an Adjunct Professor. He didn't teach apparently, but supervised several thesis candidates in the area. John had no trouble getting in.

He called Rodney from the D.C. area. "Got those sheets ready?"

The loud clanking might have been the phone dropping. When Rodney did finally speak, it was a little high-pitched. "Considering I didn't actually give you my number, I have hope that I didn't make a mistake at my leap of faith over your intellectual prowess."

"You're all heart, Rodney."

"Thank you, Major."

John grinned into the phone. "That's Lieutenant Colonel, Rodney. And by the time I get there, not even that."

Rodney's breath hitched quietly over the lines. "Whatever you say, Major."

"Go do some laundry." John hung up without saying goodbye.

******

The apartment door was peeling, but the building itself looked serviceable. John knocked, ignoring his sweaty palms.

There was a loud crash from behind the door and some heavy muttering, followed by another loud crash before the door burst open to reveal Rodney.

They sort of stared at each other for a bit.

Rolling his eyes, John dropped his luggage, grabbed Rodney's face between his hands and lunged.

Rodney made a high pitched sound that *could* have been a girly scream, but John focused on his lips, which opened softly under his, lush and hot. His tongue worked its way inside, slow shallow strokes, and Rodney whimpered into his arms.

John's hands wrapped around Rodney's shirt and pulled him into the hallway, before sliding around his back, enjoying the play of muscle under cotton.

It got a bit muzzy around then, with all the stroking and kissing and light petting. But eventually John pulled away, hand going to Rodney's cheek. "So I hope that line about the sheets was just super secret code for, 'and you're going to get laid'."

Rodney licked his lips. "Possibly." He leaned in to taste him again, tongue sweeping across John's palate. "And what's with pulling me into the hallway?"

John shoved Rodney solidly against the wall before pressing up against him and melting into his embrace, the warmth of Rodney's body doing funny things to his muscles. "Public. Gotta get used to that. Empty hallway seemed like the best place to start."

"Your logic is sort of like a Gordian Knot, isn't it?"

"Just don't cut me in half with some space gun or something," John murmured against Rodney's lips.

Fisting his shirt, Rodney tugged them inside the apartment. "Just wait till your security briefing," Rodney warned with bright eyes, right before he pounced.

 

End.

 

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